


when the sparrow falls (it breaks)

by billspilledquill



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Anachronism, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Mild Depictions of Self-Harm, it’s dramatic but have you seen the source material, there’s not a tale with more woe than hamlet and his spooky dad, what is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Devon said: Honestly I want a "5 + 1 things" fic about Ham and Horat and trying to summon Ham's spooky dad.Or, five times Hamlet and Horatio tried to summon his dad, and one time he (mostly) appeared on his own.





	when the sparrow falls (it breaks)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/gifts).



> I know this may not be the prefect valentine gift (a play about murder and incest) but I still wanted to write you something!! It’s quite short (sorry) but the odd thing is that I spent so many time in this??? Not terribly proud of it but I still hope you will enjoy it! 
> 
> Happy Valentine and spend a wonderful time with your friends and family! Love you <3

 

 

“Not a whit. We defy augury. There’s a special  
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis  
not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it  
be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.  
Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is ’t to  
leave betimes? Let be.”

Act 5, Scene 2 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**1.**

Horatio was a honorable man. A reasonable one, at least. Generally, trying to stop Hamlet from doing whatever he was prepared to be doing only increase the chance of getting yourself that puppy-eyed threat and _Horatio, do not forget about our philosophy_ , with no after mention what exactly it was. He would go with what the prince decided, that was his role as his schoolmate.

So when Hamlet brought that Ouija broad home, they both know that there was no going back.

“Are you sure about this?” He still asked, because he knew that Hamlet usually have no idea what he was doing.

Hamlet stared at him with his hollowed and blood-shot eyes. His fingers curled around the Ouija broad until it went white. Horatio had a second of pity before he said, “Horatio, do not forget about our philosophy.”

So apparently their philosophy was stoicism and dubious practice into summoning your dead father. “Okay.” He said, letting Hamlet resting on his shoulder. “Okay, let’s do it.”

He could feel Hamlet’s smile even with his head buried on the crook of his shoulder.

After numerous attempts and crazy letters smashing together at the same time, all they got from three hours of sessions is three damning words— _fuck— your—uncle_.

They looked at each other blankly, until Horatio hesitantly said, “Do you think your father is confessing an incestuous relationship or encouraging you to engage in one?”

Hamlet groaned.

 

**2.**

 

Horatio was a good man. Or at least, he tried to be. Like when he can’t get Hamlet to sleep, he hit him with a pillow.

“He’s here, Horatio,” was Hamlet’s response, his eyes filled with hope too damning for this world, “Horatio, I tell you — he’s here!”

Then he would turn around the bed, twist his blankets and look at Horatio as if he was not seeing him at all. There would usually be tears, or blood from scratching and screams. Hamlet would scream and talk and mumble to the wind until the morning comes (or Horatio would fell asleep before and Hamlet would collapse on top of him, motionless).

Hamlet’s lashes would flicker, a butterfly would flap his wings, and Horatio would be here. Such was the state of things.

“I think I see my father, Horatio.” Hamlet’s eyes were looking far far away, his lashes rested on his cheeks, casting a silent shadow, not moving.

“Where, my lord?”

“In my mind,” he replied, and didn’t speak again to him for the next week.

 

**3.**

 

Horatio was a caring man. A sympathetic one, at least. He cared about his friend very much, probably much more than Hamlet needed or Horatio can bear himself. It worked for them and no one got killed yet, so that was good.

He would saw Hamlet’s blood spread on his bed, forming a star, or a symbol of some sort every night and started to seriously doubt his previous statement about death.

“My lord,” he reasoned, staring at Hamlet’s pale and trembling face, “you can’t expect to meet him by doing _this_. It is unethical.”

Hamlet was a mythical creature made of steel and cotton, he realized, when seeing Hamlet’s jaw tightened and mouth contorted in an ugly way. Give him sugar he would hit you with a crowbar, give him salt and he would lick it off your hand.

“I don’t need this to survive,” he gestured his arm, blue veins underneath his almost transparent wrist, “but Horatio, I need to know, Horatio, _god_ , I need to know —“

Horatio faltered, because he always do, “My lord—“

“ _Our_ philosophy, _my lord_ ,” he said, “do not forget it.”

 

**4.**

 

Horatio was a wise man. At least witty enough to understand words. He buried himself in library’s books about ghosts summoning, so that was something to prove his wittiness, probably.

Not that he couldn’t bear Hamlet’s obsession with it, but he seriously thought if the prince continued like this, it would either end up in death by shortage of blood or by lack of sleep. Worse, he could really summon a ghost and it would arguably end up with more death than one. Hamlet was good at making and being disasters.

Horatio didn’t think he would really end up summoning him, though. He stared at the bundle of gas in front of him. And yet.

The armored face of the King was stoic and oddly comical. It didn’t speak, and Horatio didn’t try to neither. They faced each other with courtesy, which was strange in so many levels. Sweat ran down his forehead, the hanging silence made him open his mouth, when Hamlet ran into the library like a madman.

The ghost faded away. Horatio let out a sigh of relief.

“Was that my father?” Hamlet whispered.

“My lord—“

Hamlet’s bandaged hand clutched his arm as if he wanted to break it. Maybe he did. “Would you teach me how, Horatio?”

 _Our philosophy, my lord, does not include this_. He pressed his hand, a silent promise. “Okay.”

 

**5.**

 

Horatio was a man of letter. A well-read one, at least. He had spent more than half of his life in library, reading and annotating dead people’s works. He was trained to be scholar, a follower of the classic authors, of figures he can’t quote without seeming pretentious, a prefect candidate for a prince’s servant.

Schoolfellow, he reminded himself when Hamlet’s handwritten papers flew all over the library as soon as he opened the window.

It was dreadful sight, he must admit, undried ink splattered over Hamlet’s face and coat, like dried blood. Hamlet’s expression was murderous enough to make him think so.

“Horatio,” Hamlet snapped, “could you please close the window?”

Seized by a mild wind of rage, he closed the window in a snap, louder than necessary. “My lord,” He said, “I said I would teach you. Please stop making notes, you are messing with the room.”

They both knew this library was technically and legally Hamlet’s possession, and both choose to ignore it. “ _Til the wind doth blow southerly, Horatio,_ “ his eyes focused on the endless pile of papers around him, full of sound and fury, “I will do whatever I want.”

And then Hamlet invested wholly in his studies of ghost summoning and was heard no more. His wild curls making the only view Horatio had of him for the rest of the evening.

It was the last time he was reminded that the only way to make Hamlet stop doing whatever he was doing was death.

 

 

 

**+1**

 

Horatio was a frightened man. With no added euphemism.

Hamlet was sitting near the balcony — _the only balcony we have here, Horatio. I told you that this place is a prison_ — the dark circles under his eyes increased its size since the first time he did seen him from Wittenberg.

 _A sparrow_ , the poet inside him would chip in, _impossible to catch and reach_.

“My lord,” he said. Hamlet noticed him with a tired eye, smiled.

“Horatio, my good friend.” He embraced him lightly, “I’m certainly glad to see you.”

 _A little sparrow that he was unfortunate to reach_ , “My lord,” he repeated, returning the rare affection, _unfortunate to catch_.

He had always knew why sparrows should be released in the wild. They were too fragile and difficult for hunting. They would break before any gain could be done on it.

“My lord,” he said again and again, until the taste of it became bitter and terrible, “I have seen your father.”

 

 

 


End file.
